Unfortunate: The Life of Henny Gossamer
by WhispersofBliss
Summary: No one really knew or cared about Henny Gossamer's life. She was just some little girl from District 10 going into the Hunger Games so the important children wouldn't have to...right?
1. Introduction of Henny

**A short tale of the life of Hunger Games tribute Henny Gossamer. Companion to Coraline's Story Part 1 but can also be read on its own, although you would understand everything much better if you read both. I do not own the Hunger Games, but the character Henny Gossamer is an original.**

When you're unfortunate the moment you are born, it's most likely that you're screwed for life.

My name is Henny Gossamer, and yes, I was unlucky enough to get stuck with a name like that. In District 10 we raise goats, cows, pigs, and of course chickens and hens. Guess who always had the chore of slaying the fat mother hens? Little Henny.

And even though they mostly live outside or in the damp barns, we also hate spiders, of whom spin fine gossamer webs. My mother would always shriek whenever she saw a spider. She would not touch manure, even with her rubber gloves. And milking cows or slaying chickens was out of the question.

Oh, Mother, Mother, Mother. One can only shake his or her head at that airhead woman. Sure, she was considered one of the prettiest girls ever born to District 10 (you can't say the same about me) but looks only get you so far. The rest depends on your skills and guts.

I'm a small girl but I've always handled tough situations. I butchered pigs. I slaughtered chickens. I've stolen their eggs. The looks they gave me. I've hunted birds and rabbits in the woodland beyond all the farms. When this crazy wild boar came roaming around at night I secretly slayed it and sliced it up then made a morning stew for me and my family. Nobody ever knew who saved them from the angry boar but I was okay with that. Nobody would believe me anyways.

I was bullied harshly in school. The girls who thought they were so popular and perfect would always come by and mock me, make fun of me. Hurt me. There's this centuries old proverb that goes like "sticks and stones may break your bones but won't hurt you". That's stupid manure Words can hurt a lot more than physical pain. And why do people always choose me as their victim? Because I grew up in a poor family where we can barely scrape enough leftovers to get by? Because we've had to resort to killing and breeding our livestock with other peoples to survive? Sure, we butchered but never beyond our own. And I may be skinny, and I may be the daughter of a tramp woman, and I may be homely. But still they don't know me. They dunno who I really am.

And they never will. When they called my name at the Reaping, I knew something no one else but another girl knew. She was another twelve-year-old, and in fact standing right next to me. I looked into her eyes for a sec, but she didn't meet my gaze. And that's how I knew she knew. But I saw the Escort. Pick up two slips of names. Dropped one. Read the other. Read mine. I tried to concentrate on my own image as I forced myself to go up on that dreaded stage, but I couldn't help wondering about the girl next to me. I don't know her name, but I've seen her around school. Everyday in fact. She's friends with some of the popular girls who bullied me.

I wondered if she knew that everyday after school I would run two miles home and burst out into tears before I made it to my front door. I wonder if she knew all the emotional damage her friends had done to my feelings, calling me ugly, tramp, useless, a living skeleton, ginger, and a bunch of other things. I wondered if she knew...that I had tried to hurt myself based on those things. My mother had never really cared about me much, instead she attends parties and dates many men for their money and food. My father died when I was five from a spreading influenza around the district. I had been infected too, but he'd forced the only medicine we had down my throbbing throat. I remember the hideous bitter taste of the cow hide medicine and the look on his face as he forced me to swallow. Once I did, I had burst into tears for I knew that there was only enough for one person. During all this my mother had been at a party. She didn't even know that my father had passed away.

I made a grave for my father and I would visit pretty much whenever I can. Soon I stopped showing up at home but my mother never cared. She started beating me whenever she saw me, so I tried to stay as far away as possible. I would run to the grave of my father and just hug it or be with it. It comforts me to know that he is still nearby. Whenever I'm bullied I talk out my feelings to him and he listens, and he listens well. Every time I have thought of suicide I remember that my father had given his life for mine, so I keep his gift. Sometimes I would bring flowers I picked from the meadow and arrange them in a pretty wreath around his grave. I never lit candles in case I accidentally lit his grave on fire, but in the summer I would take an old jar, catch a few fireflies, and then set them by his grave so they can spend the night with him and me. I would always let them go in the morning. My dad would never hurt any life and wouldn't want me to.

But now I have to go against all his wishes. My father saved my life and now the Hunger Games are putting them in danger again. I have to kill if I want to live. But my father would never want me to hurt another living thing. But if I die, my father would have given his life up in vain. Things are just so complicated right now. I wish my father was here to help me get through it. I need him. I'm only twelve. And I am already on my way to the arena.

Of course nobody volunteered when the Escort asks for them. It's like signing your own death day. I have slaughtered in my life, but those were just animals, and even then I felt a hidden pain I couldn't shake off. How was I to become a murderer of twenty three other kids who are trapped in the same situation as me, who have families, loved ones, and their own lives, who are forced to fight for everything they are and will be?

When I was taken prisoner, oh excuse me, _escorted _into the Justice Building to wait for the train, I didn't take any glances back. I didn't want myself to really realize that I was leaving the only home I've ever known, the horrible yet only life I'd had had behind. It was all too much to take in and not to mention the cameras were there, ready to pounce on you if you were in tears.

All I can do is to take one last glance at the blue sky, at the world around me, the safe, familiar sanctuary I've had for twelve hard years. I think about my father's grave in the little meadow. It looks so pretty when it's springtime and all the flowers are blooming around it. Without anybody to water them, will the flowers die off? I wondered. Will everything be the same after 100 years? Who will talk to my father at night, keep him company? Who will sing to the meadow? Who can dance in the rain with him?

I love him with all my heart. I love him so much. Everything is a blur, a pain.

Maybe, just maybe, this is a sign. Maybe me going into the Hunger Games will finally allow me to be with my father! Or maybe...I can somehow, very delicately, find a way to survive under the harsh circumstances, like I have at home, and then come back and live the life, the gift my father had given me without an ounce of hesitation.

I have always been tough. I have always been a survivor. Maybe this is just my chance to prove to other people that I am not just a little useless girl.

**I plan to continue this story, but feedback really motivates me to write twists and more unexpected surprises! I really appreciate reviews, follows, favorites, even views. :)**


	2. The Train And Capitol

The scenes roll by in slow motion as the train zips through the rotten lot of Panem. We pass green blurs of familiar District 10, the rolling, swift yellow grasses of District 9, the smoking factories of District 8, and we are now surrounded by mountains a dark area of grey fog. We must be near District 2 now. And 2 is near the Capitol.

I don't look at my mentor until the fog of 2 completely takes over my view. When it does, I just simply turn my head toward my mentor, Raul Pellernan, a man of twenty nine with dark ruffled hair and angry turquoise-green eyes. He has a heavy wooden cigar in his mouth, thick smoke puffing out from it. His eyes are vacant and somewhere far away.

The boy next to me isn't helping either. His name is Remo Kinaj and he is the male tribute this year, but I would've believed anyone who said he was an Avox. He hasn't spoken a word since the Reaping. But then again I haven't either. But then again again, nobody visited me in the Justice Building.

I wasn't expecting my mother to, but I at least allowed some small part of me to hope. It was very wrong of me. What's left now in place of that hope is an emptiness that can never be filled again.

Speaking of empty, our mentor has wandered back to us, his piercing gaze now directly on me. In a low whisper that would make any girl jump, he asked, "What can you do?"

It doesn't sound a question. It sounds like a challenge.

Remo stares half paralyzed in shock for a moment and in the next he has burst into tears. Good thing his bloated little hands are covering his face so he couldn't see our mentor roll his eyes. "What about you, skinny one?"

He takes me by surprise, although I expected it to come. I sit up and look him straight in the eye. "I. Hunt." I said simply but ferociously. To my surprise, Raul comes to what is almost a shy smile. A gasping sob escapes from the person beside me.

I glance in disgust at Remo, who was trying to keep his fat cheeks with the rolling tears hidden. He is a boy of fourteen but he resembles a globular pig with acne. Little blue eyes sunken into his head which was covered in tufts of thick light-blonde hair and a few balding patches. A round stomach hung over his pants and his waistline was ginormous. I'm not making fun of his weight, but being fat in the Games isn't going to help you much. Then again being skinny for the wrong reason, which I am, is even worse.

I glance down at my stick-thin arms sprinkled with light freckles, my scabby, skinny legs that look more like twigs, and my two long, thin carroty braids. I have the most vivid hair in the arena, I must remember to tie it up, dye my hair, or camoflauge it in the arena. And without glancing in a mirror, I know my eyes are blue rimmed with an outer edge of gold, looking ridiculously out of place on my freckle-inherited face. I understand I'm unsightly, so I will need a great charm and personality to win me sponsors. Remo may be fat, but his cheeks kind of made him look like a pig, which the Capitol might consider cute. With me, I look like a living skeleton with red hair.

I scowl when I realize that Remo has probably been well fed all his life. He probably came from a wealthier family than mine. "I only took tesserae once," he bragged in my face. I shot him a look. "And look where _that's_ gotten you," I reply venomously.

Remo's little eyes grow wide and at once he began bawling. I scowled at my mentor, expecting him to chew me out but he was howling with cruel laughter. "This one might last a day or two in the arena," he smiled at me, showing vicious, crooked yellow teeth. I frown at first, but then decided to grin back.

* * *

Raul may be cool, but he still made us watch the other tributes' reapings. District 1 and 2 lunge forward to volunteer. I make a mental note to keep an eye on them. The boy from 1 has towering muscles and a sly face. The girl has short black ringlets that fall in a curtain around her neck and bright amber eyes that glint like knives in the sun. I may also need to keep away from 2 because I had trouble telling which one was the girl. 3, 4, 5. They pass by in a blur. Oh, the 6 boy volunteers with a creepy grin on his face. He may be the mental one this year.

It goes by. Both from 7 are skinny, starving, and tearing up. 8. 9. When it comes to 10, I turn my head away so I won't have to relive my horribly unlucky reaping. The 11 girl is skinny and small and very quiet. The tributes from 12 weren't worth noticing. When the TV is off Raul turns his sharp gaze on us. "Well?" he whispered softly yet deadly. "See any danger or allies?" I only stared back, Remo's soft sobbing hovering in the background. I want no allies nor friends. They will only befriend you long enough to lose you, and then leave you there dying in the end.

"IWANNAGOHOME!" wailed Remo, hunched over and crying to the end of his tear glands. No matter how much we scowled at him or occasionally whispered to him to shut up, he wouldn't stop crying.

Raul doesn't seem very pleased, but then dinner is served so he says no more. I stare greedily at all the food displayed in front of me. There is an entire roast pig stuffed with savory fruits and nuts (at home I'm lucky to get entrails) and decorated in peacock feathers, hot chicken noodle soup that feels hearty going down (which is my all time favorite at home but the last time we were able to afford it was when I was three), lobster bathing in tangy butter sauce, mashed potatoes flavored with delicate herbs, blue shrimp, thick, juicy slices of half-raw beef, gooey tentacles and a spicy cocktail sauce to dip them in, golden rolls baked to perfection and filled with a fluffy cream, steaming platters of sweet artichoke with a thick gravy spread, blue robin eggs, creamy onion soup, sour watercress soup, pink birds draped with apple honey, and a layered white cake for dessert.

Remo's flabby arms are everywhere at once, getting this, grabbing that. He doesn't even use his utensils, instead grabbing the food from everywhere and then savagely stuffing them into his mouth. When his mouth is filled and a bit of drool races down his chin, that's when he begins to chew. He makes all sorts of slobbery and satisfied sounds, grunting and stuffing and inhaling the haul in his mouth. Our escort watches with a revolted look on her face. She pushes her own plate away and gets up walking out of the room without a word. I expect Raul to do the same, but he merely smirks at us. I'm trying everything, lobster, mashed potato, a bit of pig and fruit, tentacles, soup, even the birds. It is all still warm and so delicious and it just makes me hungry for more. I've never been able to eat as much as I liked. Food is hard to come by so whenever I have some I always save some for the next time just in case. But I don't stop to save any now. Instead, I haul down as much as I can, except I try to eat slowly. Sucks for Remo who's not going to keep anything in his stomach later.

When we are finished eating it is late at night. The stars assume their positions in the sky, twinkling and winking and grinning down below at us. I sit in my compartment with my eyes trained on them, wondering what it would be like if I was traveling on a star right now. Would I still have to live my crappy life? Or would I get to go somewhere that no other human has gone before?

I am so encrypted in my daydreams that I don't notice the Capitol at first. Suddenly there was a faraway gleam of the brightest lights I've ever seen. Pinks, yellows, neon greens, all shining against the velvet sky. They blind so that tears come to prickle the corners of my eyes, and I have to blink for several moments before I've realized where we are. As we near the Capitol it is filled with much whooping and music. Glowing blobs of color-capitol citizens- dance about in the streets, laughing, talking, and partying. It filled me with a strange envy to see them like this, how I could never be as happy as they are.

Raul bursts into my room and I have to hold back a startled yelp. He chuckles darkly and then makes a sweeping motion for me out the door with a mock bow. "Welcome to hell," he said softly, his eyes gleaming with a deadly, poisonous humor.


	3. The Tribute Parade And Apple Pigs

I try my best to hold back the tears that are about to spill out of my eyes. Really, I cannot endure this. Who wants three blobs of bright colors ribbing bandages off you like a new delivery product?

My skin is red and raw, although it did look healthier than before. I might've put on a few pounds since entering the Capitol, which is very good for me. Although my prep team admires my skinniness, they say my face is incredibly sallow and easiest the most hideous they've ever worked with, my eyes are dull of any life, my freckles make me look like I have a rash, and with that vivid red hair I will be an easy target for the Careers. The one with purple ears even says she'll be weeping when I die because then all her work would've been nothing. I want to strangle them.

It gets even worse. My stylist, some forty year old trying to look seventeen, says she's got my cow costume all prepared up. I don't think udders are worshiped as fashion in the Capitol.

My team is arguing over what to do with my shaggy mane when a scream is heard from the other room. They dropped my braids and scampered over, me being completely forgotten.

I later learn after the Tribute Parade that Remo had bitten one member of his prep team when they were trying to fit his belly into his cow costume. So it was because of the fat kid that we had to wear roast pig costumes complete with apples stuffed into our mouths and a herb hat clinging to our head. The crowds were completely silent upon our arrival. Yeah, thanks a lot, Fatso.

I am not looking forward to training and meeting the other tributes. 2 and 1 were pointing and laughing at us.


End file.
